Tainted Hearts

By Cyndi Friberg

In the year 2068 the wonder drug, Methuselah, delivers on its promise to nullify the effects of aging. It also creates a fatal heart defect in the majority of earth's population.

Tuesday Fitzpatrick designs the first biomechanical heart, giving humankind hope and inadvertently thrusting herself into the spotlight. She wants only to save lives. Instead she is stalked by a fanatical tyrant. The president is pressuring her for reasons she doesn't understand. And she is kidnapped by a strangely familiar, and undeniably attractive man.

Marc Sinclair's daughter is born with the lethal heart defect, but his involvement with the Methuselah Project keeps her from being accepted for the life-saving procedure. Convinced his only option is to bypass the selection process, Marc takes matters into his own hands. He must convince, coerce, or seduce his way beyond Tuesday's emotional reserve. Sexual awareness sizzles between them, but will their attraction be enough? Marc can sense her loneliness, and her compassion for his child, still Tuesday is spirited and stubborn – and time is running out.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Cyndi Friberg
• Release date: Nov 22, 2019
• ISBN: 9781393587859

Cyndi Friberg

Passionate Sci-Fi with a touch of danger and a whole lot of sass. Cyndi has written about rock stars, vampires, and cat shifters, but she’s currently focused on outer space. Her stories are fun, fast-paced, and seriously hot. Her books have made the USA Today Top 100, and frequently land on Amazon Best Seller lists. She is currently working on the Shadowborn Rebellion, a spin-off series set in the Outcasts universe.   She loves to hear from readers: [e-mail] https://facebook.com/fribergc https://twitter.com/Cyndi_Friberg

Book preview

Chapter One

CPT Mediplex

Baltimore, Maryland, 2068

What kind of woman keeps a four-star general waiting for nearly an hour? Marcus Sinclair concealed his amusement behind a bland expression and poured water into General Bettencourt’s glass.

She’s on her way, Yvonne Lucero assured them from the head of the small conference table. Impeccably dressed in a tailored suit, she appeared calm and composed, but Marc hadn’t missed the flair of impatience. Was she angry with her tardy employee or frustrated by the general’s superior attitude? Marc’s empathic abilities only allowed him to perceive emotion. He had to guess at the rest.

This will be indicated in my report. The general continued his rant. This is a direct reflection on your leadership. Organizations must be run with discipline or productivity suffers. And productivity is the crux of the issue here at CPT. Your inability to keep up with the demand for the SP-64 is creating an international crisis.

The door swung open and a...sprite breezed into the room. Strawberry blonde curls bounced against her bare shoulders and spiraled down her back. Opaque material, in a soft marbling of pastel colors, flowed about her graceful body, offering subtle hints and impressions of the curves concealed beneath.

Unlike her austerely dressed superior, Tuesday Fitzpatrick appeared delicate and feminine. At a glance no one would guess she had developed the world’s most reliable biomechanical heart.

Good morning, she greeted cheerfully, pausing at the beverage station.

He picked up the mug he’d prepared especially for her. She offered him a distracted smile as she motioned toward the coffee pot. He quickly filled the mug with steaming coffee and handed it to Tuesday.

Sorry I’m late.

No explanation. Just those three words.

He picked up a pitcher of water and exhaled his pent-up breath. His facial reconstruction had cost a fortune and it had just passed a crucial test. Tuesday hadn’t recognized him.

As she moved in front of the windows, sunlight filtered through her dress, outlining every swell and hollow of her body. Marc nearly dropped the pitcher. High round breasts, curvy hips, long shapely legs, and a sweetly contoured ass. Wow, just wow.

Oppressive silence assured him he wasn’t the only one to notice the sunlight’s teasing display. General Bettencourt and his two aides followed her movements with rapt attention.

Had the maneuver been intentional? Their interaction in the past had been faultlessly professional. She’d never so much as flirted with him. All he sensed from her now was a vague sort of unease. No, she had no idea what the sunlight did to her seemingly modest outfit. Lucky him.

Slipping into the chair on Yvonne Lucero’s right, Tuesday gingerly blew on her coffee. Marc quickly assessed her features. High cheekbones, dainty nose, rounded chin with just the hint of a cleft, and the smoothest, softest-looking skin he’d ever seen in his life. Damn, she was wasted in a laboratory.

She lifted her gaze. Marc knew he should look away. He was nobody—a domestic class worker, trained to be invisible. Or at least that’s what she needed to believe. Like the rest of her, her eyes were extraordinary. Brilliant green, tilted at the corners, they completed her elfish air. Her lush lips curved with the faintest of smiles and then she returned her gaze to her mug.

Marc gave himself a mental shake and reinforced his role. Pull it together, Sinclair. You can’t afford to draw her attention. Not yet! Tugging down the jacket of his uniform, he topped off Yvonne’s water glass and returned to the beverage station praying Tuesday liked coffee a lot.

Glad you could join us, Ms. Fitzpatrick. General Bettencourt’s sharp blue gaze settled on the new arrival. Were you made aware of the importance of this meeting?

I was told you wished to address your displeasure with the amount of time it takes to complete each of my biomechanical hearts. She sipped her coffee. Was there something more?

The general’s nostrils flared. He folded his hands on the tabletop and leaned toward her. Unified North American Government is generously subsidizing the SP-64 Project. That entitles us to certain assurances. Our contract states—

I’m fully aware of the conditions of the contract. Are you familiar with the production demands of the SP-64? We’re not building transports here, General Bettencourt. The basic synthetic compound alone takes nearly a year to cultivate before the biological elements can be introduced.

The situation surrounding the Methuselah epidemic has become so volatile, he paused for effect, President Rawsen is on the verge of declaring martial law.

Tuesday deliberately set her cup aside and mirrored the general’s posture. The Methuselah epidemic began nine years ago. What has changed—in the past twenty-four hours—to warrant martial law?

Good question. Marc grabbed the coffeepot and went to fill her mug. Her light, floral scent swept over him. He wanted to bury his face in that cloud of curly hair and inhale her scent until he was dizzy.

Thanks, she murmured absently as he stepped back.

I’m not here to debate governmental decisions. I’m here to explain our intentions.

That earned him a raised eyebrow. When governmental decisions directly affect a device for which I hold all patents and licenses, I have every right to debate your—

You’ll have no rights at all if President Rawsen declares martial law.

Her chair flew back and slammed against the wall and scorching anger swept through the room. Is that a threat?

Marc could have sworn the red in her hair brightened. Perhaps it was the crimson flush suddenly staining her cheeks.

A warning. Productivity at Cardio Pulmonary Technologies will increase by twenty-five percent within thirty days or CPT will be turned over to me.

Yvonne Lucero gasped. All of CPT or just the SP-64 division?

Vonne! Tuesday objected. What difference does it make?

SP-64 is CPT, Ms. Lucero, and we all know it. He pushed his chair back casually and smiled. I’ll return on Friday to review your optimization plan. I trust you’ll have one by then.

With his aides trailing in his wake, the general walked from the room.

The two women stared at each other, clearly flabbergasted by the meeting’s outcome.

Would you please excuse us? Yvonne motioned Marc toward the door.

Tuesday watched the courtesy attendant cross the room. Tall and broad-shouldered, he would turn heads in any crowd. Maybe it was the confident tilt of his chin or the inherent authority in his stride, but he didn’t seem the type to settle for a domestic class assignment. Something about him just didn’t seem right.

Twenty-five percent, Vonne lamented. How in the world does he expect us to accomplish that?

He doesn’t. Tuesday tossed her hair over her shoulders and strode to the windows overlooking the busy central square of the mediplex. He knows it’s impossible. The real question is why does President Rawsen want control of CPT?

Money, power...hell, the government gets a fifteen percent cut as it is. I don’t understand the pressure. Why now?

Anger twisted around Tuesday’s uncertainty. She had poured her soul into SP-64. Not even President Rawsen had the right to manipulate her like this. Regardless of the forces motivating him, she would fight him every step of the way. I don’t know what inspired this sudden change, Tuesday turned to face her friend, but we need to find out what’s behind these demands.

I’ll set the bloodhounds on it.

Tuesday followed Vonne from the conference room but turned right and went to her office down the hall. She spent most of her time in the spacious lab three floors below the corporate level and the cluttered condition of her office reflected that fact. Kicking off her shoes, she slipped in behind her desk and activated her terminal.

Check messages, she directed.

A list of new and saved messages appeared on the holoscreen. She scrolled through the list and deleted several she recognized as advertisements. Spotting one from her sister, she groaned. She was definitely not in the mood for Sydney right now!

An all-too-familiar name caught her eye. Job. Why wouldn’t this guy leave her alone? She started to delete the entry but curiosity won out and she activated it instead.

His slender, pale face filled the screen. Framed by silvery-blond hair, his features were all sharp angles and sinister hollows. Fascination drew her gaze to his ice-blue eyes. She’d never seen eyes like his until his first message three weeks before. Across the light blue surface expanded multiple spikes, like the points of a silver star. They appeared nearly colorless one moment, then flashed with metallic intensity the next. Vanity enhancements had become ridiculously popular over the past decade.

Ms. Fitzpatrick, he began, his voice slightly mocking. When will I actually get to see you? You keep accepting my messages, so I know you’re interested. He smiled though the show of even white teeth added no warmth to his face. Have you read any of the information I sent you? Why won’t you accept an interactive call? It would make everything so much easier. Your resistance only makes you more intriguing, but I think you know that. Don’t make me do something...unconventional.

With another humorless smile he ended the message.

Why did she keep opening his messages? If she just deleted them, he’d probably go away. Something unconventional? She didn’t like the sound of that. He knew where she worked. Security protocols would keep him in the public areas but he could certainly show up uninvited.

What’s the matter? Vonne’s question was a welcome interruption. She stood in the open doorway, concern knitting her brow.

Manufacturing a distracted smile, Tuesday said, Nothing. Just another semi-creepy message from Mr. PURE.

Filter him out. You don’t have to accept his transmissions.

I know, but some of the information he’s sent me is...interesting.

The older woman narrowed her dark eyes thoughtfully and moved farther into the office. Are you sure his interest isn’t personal?

I’ve never met the man. He’s trying to recruit me for his organization. Guess he thinks I’d make an advantageous spokesperson.

If you say so.

I say so.

Vonne tapped a long, chrome-tipped fingernail against the file folder tucked beneath her arm. Aren’t you headed to Sinclair-Dietrich?

Tuesday cringed. It never failed. All she had to hear were those two names and she felt like she’d been slapped. Yeah.

Her friend chuckled. Are you ever going to get that reaction under control? Yes, Sinclair-Dietrich was responsible for Methuselah but they also developed the chemical cocktail that keeps the human body from rejecting SP-64.

And who says God doesn’t have a sense of humor?

Methuselah. Another name that made Tuesday cringe. Humankind’s quest for immortality had been paid for at the expense of their children. The medication had never been meant to treat the effects of aging. The first formula, Nuerostem, had been developed for the victims of multiple sclerosis. The medication’s ability to stabilize the telomere, which arrested the aging process, was an unexpected side effect.

The FDA approved Nuerostem with dire warnings and strict guidelines for its use. Sinclair-Dietrich went to work on a refined formula, but the age-conscious public was far too impatient to wait. Unauthorized copies of the compound popped up everywhere. An encapsulated fountain of youth available wherever food supplements were sold.

It was only after a once rare genetic abnormality began to manifest in record numbers that Methuselah revealed its dark side.

Hello, Vonne prompted. Where’d you go?

Sorry. Apparently the general rattled me more than I realized. Yes, I have a meeting with the Sinclair-Dietrich team. Why do you ask?

She handed Tuesday the sealed folder. Can you see that someone gets this to Mr. Sinclair? Or will the elusive director actually put in an appearance for a change?

Don’t know, don’t particularly care. What’s in the file?

R&D projections for the Pocket Defibrillator.

Tuesday nodded. Will do.

Thanks. And by the way, I wouldn’t have thrown you to the wolves back there. Bettencourt just caught me by surprise.

It took her a second to realize her friend was apologizing for her reaction to the general’s announcement. I know. He caught us both off guard. Figure out what they’re up to. I really don’t need the stress right now.

Vonne smiled and raised one of her highly arched brows. Why don’t you disappear for a few days?

Because I have way too much to do and my boss is—

Your boss is suggesting it—no, ordering it. If I can’t find hide nor hair of you, it will buy me the time I need to figure out what in blazes these goons are up to. After your meeting with Sinclair-Dietrich check into a hotel somewhere, preferably under an assumed name. I’ll tell Bettencourt you’re throwing a fit and I can’t do anything without you.

Won’t that give him the opening he’s looking for?

Vonne shook her dark head, her gaze sparkling with mischief. He said thirty days. I have the meeting record, if it comes to that, so I can hold him to it. We have to figure out what this is really about. Your disappearance will throw him off balance.

Tuesday gathered what she’d need for her meeting and placed it in her burgundy satchel. I could do some snooping while I’m playing hide-and-seek. Might actually be fun.

You can send encrypted messages to my private address, text only, of course. Let me know what you find out.

I always wanted to be a spy. Tuesday laughed.

After her boss left, she called the front desk and confirmed that a Sinclair-Dietrich shuttle was waiting for her. She hated these meetings but they were a necessary evil. The balanced combination of medications the pharmaceutical giant had developed was an undeniable contributor to her success. Her actual design hadn’t changed that much over the past five years. It was only after agreeing to partner with the chemists at Sinclair-Dietrich that everything had fallen into place.

She rolled her chair back and stood. The room spun and she grasped the edge of her desk. Maybe she’d better grab something to eat. That was one heck of a head rush. Wiggling her feet into her shoes and swinging her satchel onto her shoulder, she made her way down to the departure ring through the main lobby of the mediplex.

* * * * *

Marc Sinclair sat in the cockpit of the shuttle impatiently waiting for his passenger. Did Tuesday enjoy keeping men waiting or had he miscalculated the dosage of the sedative he’d used to line her mug? If she succumbed before she got on the shuttle, he was screwed. Three months of planning down the drain.

He shook away his doubt and focused on the goal. Elise. Nothing else mattered.

A buzzer sounded and Marc smiled. He opened the hatch for his guest, watching on the monitor as she boarded and settled into one of the passenger seats. She yawned and rolled her shoulders. His smile broadened.

I’m ready, pilot, she said, obviously familiar with the routine.

I seriously doubt it. He didn’t activate the intercom, so she didn’t hear the words.

Ten minutes of the shuttle’s subtle vibration combined with the sedative had her sleeping like a baby. After programming the coordinates for his hunting lodge into the shuttle’s navigational system, Marc sent a person-to-person page to Laura Finn.

Phil Carey, Marc’s security director recommended all communication be relayed through him but Marc was better at giving directives than following them. He scrambled the audio signal and kept the transmission short.

Hello, Marc. Laura’s familiar voice made him smile. I didn’t expect to hear from you until tomorrow. How are you enjoying Vancouver? I’ve heard it’s lovely this time of year.

He wasn’t on vacation as she believed; in fact he’d yet to leave Baltimore. I’ve seen very little of the city. My watchdog is determined to make me relax. I just called to check on Elise.

Relaxation is what the doctor ordered. Phil is just doing his job.

How’s my daughter?

She’s fine. After a short pause Laura admitted, Well, actually she’s having a bad day. I had to activate her bypass and you know how she hates that. But her numbers responded immediately, so she should be able to come off this afternoon.

They want me to rest for at least another week, but say the word and I’ll shuttle home. Nothing is more important than Elise.

Anyone who’s ever met you understands that. No, the doctors are right. You need to relax. Leave Elise to me.

I’ll call again tomorrow. If there’s a problem Phil knows how to contact me.

He ended the transmission and turned to the screen monitoring the passenger cabin. Tuesday slumped in her seat, her head rolled slightly to one side. You’re going to help me whether you want to or not. Elise has suffered long enough.

* * * * *

Cold air brushed Tuesday’s bare legs, drawing her back from the void. She stirred. The arms holding her tightened. Where was she? Someone was carrying her, cradled against a broad chest like a child. How odd.

A deep male voice spoke a quick sequence of numbers. A security code? What was going on? A surge of adrenaline cut through the haze enveloping her mind. She struggled to lift her eyelids but they felt weighted, unresponsive.

She heard the soft hiss of a door or transport hatch and then the cold air vanished.

Who... She forced her eyes open. Where am I? It didn’t help. Her vision blurred.

Just relax, the man coaxed.

As if she could do anything else. Her entire body felt useless. He placed her on a sofa, firm and cool against her bare skin. Blinking reflexively, she tried to bring the scene into focus.

Think, Tuesday. You were on your way to Sinclair-Dietrich.

She’d felt odd before that. Had she passed out? With great effort, she raised the back of her hand to her forehead. Her skin felt cool and dry.

The fog was beginning to lift from her vision. She took several deep breaths and looked around. The room was perfectly square. A railed loft completely encircled the lower level. Constructed of simulated logs and knotty planks, this rustic environment didn’t belong to any office building.

Fear burned off more of the fog. Strength crept into her muscles and her nerves awakened, the sensation part tingle, part sting.

Where the hell was she?

What was going on?

She tried to sit, but her body protested. Drugged. She’d been drugged.

Her captor strolled back into the room, carrying a quilted comforter. He’d replaced his uniform with black jeans and a simple green pullover but she recognized the courtesy attendant from her meeting that morning.

What do you want with me? Her voice sounded raspy, unsteady.

Let me get you some water. He spread the comforter over her and turned toward the kitchen visible at the other end of the open room.

Where am I? Why did you bring me here?

No response.

The shivers began subtly, but built with astonishing speed until her entire body trembled and shook. She clutched the comforter, her teeth chattering. Something about this man was familiar, the way he moved, perhaps the tilt of his head. Did she just remember him from that morning? Or was it something more?

The chills only last a few minutes then you’ll be good as new. He set a glass of water on the coffee table and knelt beside the couch. Try not to clench your muscles. If you fight it, your body will cramp.

Tuesday glared at him but her chattering teeth kept her from speaking. She’d known something was odd about him. Why hadn’t she trusted her instincts? He was too...assured to be domestic class. The immaculate styling of his rich brown hair hinted at a personal groomer. His features were too perfect, probably genetically or surgically altered, and those eyes. Only vanity enhancement could produce so vivid a shade of teal.

A sharp, burning cramp locked her thigh, extending along her hip and into her groin. She cried out, fumbling to rub the knotted muscles.

Where? he demanded.

Thigh. She writhed, the pain excruciating.

He tossed back the comforter and reached beneath her dress. Closing his strong, warm fingers around her thigh, he squeezed, rubbed, and eased the spasm from her cramping muscle. She instinctively moved her leg toward him. His hand followed the tension higher and

Reviews for Tainted Hearts

[Crush · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

I enjoyed this book with strong characters and an exciting background of a future time .